Broken Promises
by Exaggerated Memories
Summary: Bella keeps promising herself to stop. But she's never been good at keeping promises. AH. AU. OOC. Just a drabble I wrote late at night.


**A/N: Just a little drabble I wrote at like 2 A.M. AH, AU, OOC**

Clutching the sheet to my chest, I snuck a quick peek at him from the corner of my eyes. He was the picture of ease and the epitome of walking, talking sex. There was a sheen of sweat blanketing his face, and his breathing was still slightly labored from our previous activities. The scruff he normally wore along his chiseled jaw line contrasted his flushed cheeks greatly. I licked my lips as I took in his long brown locks, messier than usual and sticking every which way from his head. His beautiful, hooded hazelnut eyes clouded with desire as he followed the movement of my tongue. The lazy grin formed by his perfectly plump, swollen lips turned predatory as he beckoned me with his finger to come closer.

Silently, I acquiesced to his wishes and slowly eased myself into his embrace. The sheet fell from my grip, exposing my naked torso to the cool night air drifting in from the open window and causing goose bumps to rise on my flesh. Noticing my cold, he ran his hands up and down my arms to create friction, while pulling me closer so the heat emanating from his body covered me in a blanket of warmth. His arms, holding me, protecting me from everything, felt so right wrapped around me. Yet, something was off.

At the moment I realized the little bubble we were wrapped in wasn't pure perfection, his hands travelled along my sides, ghosting the curves of my breasts and hips. He leaned into me, shifting so he could suck on the sensitive spot on my neck and to let me feel just how much I affected him. Letting out a soft whimper, I nearly forgot the previous sense of wrongness I felt between us. Nearly. But as he laid me back down on the bed, I could see in his eyes that there was a disconnect between what he was seeing, hearing, and feeling and what was right in front of him. For when he caressed me so gently, I thought I would explode, and when he finally pushed into me, I thought I would cry, somehow, I knew it was not _me _he was seeing. When my name fell from his lips quietly, almost reverently, like a prayer, it was not _my _name he longed to moan in pleasure. When our sweat-slicked chests slid together, causing the most delicious friction, it was not _my _body he was feeling pressed against him. No. It was _her _that he saw when he closed his eyelids. It was _her _name he chanted over and over again in his head. It was _her_ body he felt sliding and joining with his own. And with each thrust, nearing closer and closer to sweet ecstasy, sweet escape, I felt my heart crack a little.

Finally reaching the end together, he filled me with almost everything he had in him: his frustration, his pain, his grief, his anger, his desperation, his want. He didn't fill me with his love, though. The closest I got was his need. His need for my body, his need for my presence, his need for me…his need for something tangible and solid in his life, something that he could touch, and something that needed him just as much. Because it was true. I needed this man more than anything else in this world. It was a mutual feeling, this need. We needed each other like air to breathe. That was as far as it went, though: need. Never love, not for me at least. No, love was reserved for _her_. I got need.

He rolled off of me then, so the weight of his body wouldn't crush me. He pulled me close to him so that my back was pressed flush against his chest. One of his arms draped around my waist and mindlessly drew circles on my bare stomach. I sighed a satisfied and content, albeit a bit exhausted, sigh, which he mirrored. Slowly, he kissed up my neck to my ear.

"I love you," he whispered, so softly I had to strain to hear him over the sound of my ragged breathing. "I'm yours, and I love you."

Almost immediately, I heard his breathing even out and felt his heart thumping against my back slow down, and I knew he was asleep. Somehow, those soft-spoken words brought a stabbing pain to my heart. Somehow, those soft-spoken words enticed an internal tornado, wreaking havoc in my chest. Somehow, those soft-spoken words stirred feelings that yelled at me to cry and scream and kick and scratch and claw and throw things around at the unfairness of it all. Somehow, those soft-spoken words echoed loudly in my ears, not allowing me to enjoy this peaceful moment with him. I wanted to push those soft-spoken words to the deepest corners of my mind, but something wouldn't let me. My thoughts from earlier struck me again.

His arms, holding me, protecting me from everything, felt so right wrapped around me. Yet, something was off. I knew what it was. There was one thing he _couldn't_ protect me from—himself. The pain caused by his whispered "I love you" was due to the fact that, deep down, I knew he didn't love me. He may think he loves me, he may fool himself on a daily basis that I am the one for him, but it is not true. The stab I felt when he tells me "I'm yours" is because of the simple fact that he isn't mine, though I may be his. He gave up his heart long ago, and he never got it back after _she _smashed it so hard I doubted he would ever be able to truly love anyone besides _her_, the only person capable of putting it back together again. Now, he holds mine in the palms of his strong hands to do as he wishes with it, even if it means slowly carving away at it before finally ending my misery and leaving it, a shattered, unrecognizable mess bleeding on the ground.

Those soft-spoken words broke me more than if he would tell me that we were nothing more than friends with benefits, that I was nothing more than a girl he could call when he's in the mood, that I was nothing to him. If he would tell me any of those things, I would know without a doubt in my mind that more were impossible. Yet, every time he whispered those three deadly words, I thought there was a chance it could be true. Every time, something sick wound its way in my stomach, something that felt like hope without reservation. Hope, especially false hope, would be the knife that he would use to dissect my heart.

Those soft-spoken words, those sweetly beautiful lies that I yearned with a burning desire, setting my whole body aflame, to be true. Oh, how I wanted to believe them, to believe him. Feeling him lying with me, against me, I could almost pretend that he reciprocated my undying love and devotion to him. I knew if I did, though, I would only end up hurting myself more than he already has. I knew I shouldn't make believe the fairytale of us that I had designed in my head. But feeling him here with me negated everything I knew I shouldn't do.

I promised myself I wouldn't do this again with him. I promised I would break it off with him for both our sakes. I promised I would keep this promise this time, unlike all the other times I've made it before. I promised I would burst the fairytale in the morning, so long as I had this one last night with him, pretending we were each others' and nothing could harm us. Yet, deep down in the same place I knew I was just a substitute for _her_, in the same place I knew that I loved him more than my own life, I knew that I would end up breaking my promises. Before going to sleep and snuggling closer to his chest, I already broke my promise with a murmured five deadly words.

"I love you, too, Jasper."

**A/N: I hope you liked it!**


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